Okay, that last entry was way depressing, but this one is soooo much better. The annual vacation to the lake-house was monumental. Well…maybe just mental, i.e. mental health. A few days were oppressively humid, but HEY…it’s July. They don’t call’em the dog days for nothing. And for a couple of days all I wanted to do was find a cool slab of grass or concrete and lay my belly on it. Sirius heat. All in all, though, I found it quite tolerable as I like the humidity as it is. Pacific islander, part. It’s in my blood. Or maybe it’s because I was raised in Indiana and we survived the summer’s heat without air conditioning until I was in Junior High!?

Not much was planned this year other than a day for Rascal’s Fun Zone and parents-night-out for dinner. The Fun Zone consists of go-karts indoor/outdoor, bumper boats, mini-golf, mini-bowling, and an arcade. If the possibility of cranial damage or cracked vertebrae sounds exciting to you then indoor karting is your bag. Them puppies is electric, very smooth, and much more likely to spin out of control. Let’s just say that I had my teeth rattled more than once. There’s also a Junior track so that the short ones can get behind the wheel and maneuver there own vehicles. The outdoor karts are still a hoot, but on a hot July day a refreshing blast of artificially cooled atmosphere really hits the spot. Everyone, it seems, packed in an excess of frivolity and mirth and nary a protest did I hear from the chillwren. Except when our three hour passes were spent and, all too soon, it was time to depart. Little do they realize that smiles will again cross they’re droll little mouths and the world will be right-side up and on the same day. And on that same day, or evening to be apropos, the parents left the tykes with the vicenarians and made haste for a local steak-house. Just one more peaceful, medicated moment. Argumentative, pugnacious children, no. Serenity and joy, yes. I have my laughs at the expense of my children’s budding self-esteem, but I still love them and they won’t be reading this anyway…probably.

The remainder of our time at McGee Manor on the Loch was spent in the true spirit of vacationing. A little this, a little that, follow your bliss. Want to swim? Go swim. Want to nap? Take a nap. The only regret that I have this year is that we were unable to catch a glimpse of the rare and solitary Sweetwater Land Crab. ‘Tis a mighty beast filled with cunning and a reluctance to approach humans…except when they’re hungry…or so I have heard. We trolled up and and down the quiet coves in hopes of discovering its whereabouts. We even asked some of the lake denizens if they had, perhaps, chanced to spot our stealthy friend, but so cautious is the Land Crab that even these fair folk knew not the existence of such a creature. Reclusive, indeed. Maybe next year we will have better luck. I’m looking into leasing a small submersible.

It doesn’t get better. It becomes ever more oppressive and despair is a friend I care not to see as much as I have. A darkness that used to appear sparingly now seems to loom constantly…growing, just on the horizon. I feel the menace of hopelessness that threatens a tenuous sliver of light where permanence is an uncertainty. The black dread waxes more frequently. Sometimes… I want to give in.

There! I’ve done it. I’m on Facebook. Lo, that the scurrilous howls of all manner of beast and man lay upon mine ears. So soon did it take me for I have not the strength to refuse such deliberate and seductive persuasion. In due time, I will give this matter the attention that it so justly deserves. During the interstices I shall ponder that discourse of which time and priority are at odds with veridical reasoning and temporal execution. Voila! And now for my next magical trick…

2nd post. What are tags? Where do I see them? I see them everywhere. Four score and seven years ago our founding fathers brought forth a righteous keg party from hell. All were in attendance and all drank their fill. It was a night of debauched lasciviousness and wanton hedonism. Indeed, how much more must I confess before deliberation throws its dead tendrils to the ground?